


Her Blunt Instrument

by Wolfsbride



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/pseuds/Wolfsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seriously. Do <i>not</i> mess with M.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Blunt Instrument

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Don't Mess with M](https://archiveofourown.org/works/938449) by [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage). 



Bond sits in his car outside M’s flat for a long time. It takes him quite a while to release his tense grip on the wheel. He knows she’s hurt by his abrupt departure, but it was either leave or break down completely. Out of the two of them, he suspects he’s the one in more shock. 

He shudders and presses a hand to his face. He had been too late. She’d needed him and he’d been too late. It’s just as well she can look after herself.

The scene keeps replaying in his mind’s eye. He turns the corner and sees her hauling off and hitting that odious little man. He hadn’t known what to think. It was only when he’d got closer that he’d fully understood the situation. Her hair, makeup and clothes had been in disarray. He’d wanted to hit Dickson then too. 

Instead he’d taken her home and done his best to take care of her. As he always would. 

Bond rubs his hand over his face, and then lowers it. He should get back to his own home. Tomorrow is going to be horrendous. As M had remarked, no doubt Dickson would file a complaint and have a swollen nose as evidence. He wants to be there as support.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Junior Minister Dickson finally manages to stagger his way into his flat, he is cursing. Even his inebriated condition is not enough to temper the horrible throb of his injured nose. He wonders if it is broken. 

“How dare she! Fucking dried up hag. Should be bloody grateful anyone bothers to look at her. I’ll show her. The Foreign Minister will hear about this!” 

Dickson continues to mutter as he stumbles his way to his kitchen. First an ice pack and then he will concoct a viable story as punishment. His drunken haze is such that he doesn’t notice anything wrong until he has fumbled on the kitchen lights.

He lets out a shriek when he’s confronted with a man sitting at his kitchen table aiming a gun at him. The man stares like he’s less than a bug and then kicks a chair out from the table. 

“Sit.”

It is not a voice that brooked disobedience. Dickson edges from the doorway to the chair and sits cautiously, his gaze never leaving the man’s face. It is only after he’d sat that recognition blooms.

“You! You were with her in the corridor.”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?” Dickson splutters. “I’ll have you written up. I’ll…”

“Quiet.”

Dickson snaps his mouth closed. He’s never seen anyone look so emotionless. When the man reaches inside his tuxedo jacket, his breath freezes. 

He is already being held at gunpoint. What more could there be? His eyes widen when a pair of handcuffs are withdrawn. The handcuffs make a loud thunk when they are tossed on the table. 

“Put them on. Left hand. Leave the other one free.”

Swallowing, Dickson reaches for the cuffs with shaky hands. It takes him a couple of tries before he is able to secure one around his left wrist as instructed. He looks up, tempted to speak again. His words stick in his throat when the man finally stands, looming over him.

“Do you know who I am?”

Dickson licks his lips. “You’re… You’re one of our agents.”

The man snorts. “Her agent, yes. The name’s Bond, James Bond.” 

Keeping the gun pointed at Dickson’s head, Bond leans down and fastens the free cuff to the base of the chair. It has the effect of pulling Dickson’s arm behind his back.

“Now see here! What do you think you’re doing?”

As he straightens, Bond presses the muzzle of the gun under Dickson’s chin. Dickson shuts up.

“Better.”

Bond shifts the gun, sliding it from Dickson’s chin to his temple. 

“How does it feel Minister, to be unable to defend yourself? To fear for your life? Your dignity? Your virtue? Not very good, hmm?” 

Bond nudges the gun hard and Dickson’s head tilts to the side. “Answer.”

“N… No.” He barely gets the word out. His pulse hammers as he gets a glimpse of Bond’s eyes. “Please. Don’t.”

Bond pulls the trigger and Dickson jerks. The gun merely clicks. 

Dickson pants harshly. He’s horrified to realize he’s pissed his pants.

Bond holsters his gun. He gazes down at Dickson coldly. “Remember this the next time you feel the need to go where you’re not wanted.”

Dickson shakes his head. “I won’t bother anyone again. I swear.”

“Good. There’s just one more thing.”

Grabbing Dickson’s free hand, Bond slams it on the table, flattening out the fingers. He smashes his fist down. Dickson screams. 

“That’s for putting your dirty hands on her.”

Bond hits him again. Dickson screams even louder.

“That’s for putting your filthy mouth on her.”

Bond steps back. He smoothes down his tuxedo. “I’ll see myself out.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

As he drives off, Bond wonders how long it will take Dickson to realize the handcuffs will release if he tugs hard enough.


End file.
